Home
by Lambystories
Summary: One should never leave a week's worth of house-sitting to The Mole. Gregstophe.


There's an odor overpowering the entire apartment and it's making your nose burn. It smells like something died. Knowing your company, it's a very probable case.

With the mix death also comes a trace of gun powder, garbage that should have been taken out days ago, a whiff of microwaved corndogs-past- all collecting with the smell being emitted by a dozen or so car-refreshers shaped as pine trees and hanging from the ceiling. Oddly, they're all arranged in one corner of the room.

It's the most disgusting "Welcome Home" you've yet to receive.

Not that you've had many of those. Or any. But let's not linger on the fact that this is what you will always be categorizing as the First Ever.

The fact of the matter was you were gone for one week, and the only acquaintance you trusted to watch your facility was practically lying in his own filth, sprawled nonchalantly on your sofa in his muddy combat boots, to which his shorter height has them leaving prints on the arm's fabric. His own arms are folded over his chest and his eyes are shut, his thick eyebrows furrowed in some annoyance of the sun's rays from the window shining on his dirty face. Dear God _he's disgusting._

You mimic his stance and cross your arms tightly over your own chest, looming over him from the back of sofa. You clear your throat harshly, _"Ahem,"_ and watch as his eyes snap open with immediate and sharp, piercing focus.

But his face instantly relaxes with recognition, and he pushes himself up with his elbows to keep from squinting from the sunlight that was continuing to assault him. "Good morning," he greets, positioned somewhat upside down from your own face.

"It's half-three in the afternoon, Christophe," you inform him through tight lips. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I don't know, _napping_?" Christophe responds, almost genuinely confused by such a ridiculous question. It has you fuming to the point you didn't want to retaliate on such an equally-moronic level. You choose to reply by sweeping your arm out in a wide gesture around the room, raising your eyebrows at him for every offense:

Empty boxes of microwaved dinners littering you countertop.

Unwashed dishes piled in the sink and in an open dishwasher door.

The boots staining your velvet sofa, (to which Christophe immediately swings his legs over the edge and keeping his awkward half-laying position.)

And then there was the monstrosity of all the hanging air refreshers. Christophe then looks offended when you stop your arm-sweeping to stab a single finger accusingly in their direction. "_What?"_

"You really think all of those will get rid of this… this," You couldn't place what to call it; this _defilement. _You growl in annoyance and spit, "They're not even spaced out, Christophe!"

"Uh-huh," agrees your French friend, swinging himself around fully to sit on the edge of his seat. "It would have been a very, err…_ inélégant_, you see. And I know how much pride you take in your interior decorating." His voice was mockingly more high-pitched, and you scowl hard at his smirking face.

"It doesn't matter how _pretty_ you keep my place when it smells like sewage!" To add effect, you bring the front of your shirt up over your nose. "_You_ smell worst of all!"

"I do _not_," Christophe finally starts showing offense.

You feed the hurt by swiping a finger across his cheek, him flinching back, and yourself rubbing it and your thumb together gingerly at the dark and crumbling texture. You question with your eyebrows arise, "Is this soot?"

"Ze complex had bats," Christophe replies simply. "I was bored enough to help."

"You just like killing things," you said back, wiping the collected grime on your trousers.

"I didn't kill ze bats. _You_ had rats, though."

"Well _gee_," you exclaim, throwing your hands up. "I wonder why!"

You looked your friend up and down, until his eyes caught the movement of your own and widened in disbelief, as he then springs up in your face. "I don't attract vermin!"

"You're filthy, Christophe. _Actual moles_ are more hygienic."

"_How dare you_—let me go!"

You have your hold on his arms, spinning him around so you held his shoulder from behind and pushed him down the hall. Over all the obscenities and threats he was throwing you, you thought you really did _have_ to get this man cleaned up, before you can even consider him helping you clean up the rest of the place. And somehow you thought yourself lucky, even for a split second, that the mud he was leaving behind on your good hardwood floors were helping making the slide-pushing easier.

Turning yourselves into the designated room was harder, but you finally manage to push the struggling Frenchman into the bathroom, slamming the door and throwing your back to it as he struggled to keep his balance and catch himself on the sink. The mirror stares back and displays you as a wild man, blonde hair out of place and arms thrown out wide to barricade any escape route. But you're determined. "Get in the shower."

"What?" Christophe barked.

You pointed to the corner shower without moving from your protective stance on the door. "Put your clothes in the laundry chute. Get in the shower. _Now._"

Christophe faced you with his own back to the sink, gripping its edge and glaring daggers under his eyelashes, and with dark circles threateningly distinct below.

The tension between the two of you ceased as he started to remove his shirt, you sighing out in appreciation for his cooperation. You were torn between crinkling your nose and laughing at the shower of dust that fell on Christophe's shoulders as he popped his shirt over his head, when he suddenly threw the article of clothing right at you.

Immediately you start spitting before whatever had a chance to get into your lungs and swatting the item blindly away and down to the floor. Using the confusion for his advantage, Christophe immediately lunges for the door for a half-dressed escape, but you quickly slam your side into wood to keep it shut.

The sound of both of your shoes scraping against the tile floor are joined by Christophe's grunts, the ones you returned as he tried shoving your body and face away, and the door repeatedly slamming shut after each attempt of its opening. Christophe is fast, but you're bigger and stronger.

"I'm not letting you leave until you clean up and clean _my apartment_!" you shout after an elbow-jab in the cheek.

"Get away from me!" Christophe yelled back.

"I need you to bathe!"

"_Tu es une salope_!"

"No _you're_ a bitch!"

By now the both of you were squished shoulder-to-shoulder, faces inches apart and hot, angered breath lingering over each other's skin. Christophe catches you off-guard once again by smirking, and when you open your mouth to question the meaning behind his smug little look, he brings his lips to the corner of yours.

You blink rapidly, confused and angry, but the tension in your face disappears to be dominated by the former.

"Christo—" But he's caught your upper lip between his own, and you can feel him leaning against you to balance out the difference in your stature. You hold your ground to keep the door barricaded, but the competitor is busier with pressing against you, running his lips across yours, and nuzzling his nose into your throbbing cheek.

It's after he's pulled back and still wearing that smug look that you figure out his game. Half of the grime caked on his face and clothes are gone… and all over you.

That's the last straw.

You see the corners of his mouth lifting and his lips parting for a good cackling. Before he can have the pleasure of letting it all out, you shove him with your shoulder with every ounce of strength and rage you can muster. The force sends him barreling into shower, tangling into the curtains before unwinding himself and falling against the shelf. The bottles held within tumble around, and one falls to the porcelain floor, which you kick out of the way while simultaneously drawing back the curtains to loom over Christophe's enraged figure. You meet his glare with equal intensity, throwing your hand up to hold on to the showerhead as an anchor. He recoils slightly at the stance you're presenting: powerful behind wild hair and burning eyes, covered in dirt and ash and whatever else the cretin has smudged all over you. Your hand grips the cord of the shower head.

And you start spraying your friend.

"GREGORY!" the Frenchman roars, and you laugh as you get him right in the face and leave him bubbling his protests and cries. "Gregory, god damn it, _I'm in my clothes!_"

"I told you to take them off," you reply matter-of-factly, and aim for his bare chest. Brown streaks run down to his belt, and you're relieved you're making _some_ progress while he's hissing and whining. "Less clothing, more soap."

You're standing on the edge of the shower's opening and he's in the corner, like a poor soul being attacked by the blast of a fire hose. But he's taken too much abuse, your mind quickly registers, when he lunges at you trying to take the showerhead out of your grasp. You hold it high above his head, spraying the wall as a soaked Christophe claws at your arm and screams at how much of a bastard you are. Among other crude things. What surprises the most is how stable he is trying to scuffle in his boots, and how childishly stubborn he is about a good bathing.

"Hold _still,_" you command through the struggle, managing to flick your wrist and get the water showering directly above him.

"I'm not an infant, you son of a beetch!" he screams. He pushes against your arm, and now you're spraying yourself in the face and tasting all of Christophe's dirt and salt of your own sweat. He laughs as you recoil and cough the water out of your lungs.

And now you're both soaked. Christophe finds it hysterical, ignoring the sound of the showerhead being put back in its hold to cover the whole shower's space. The damage is done anyway.

You step in with him, shoes and all thanks to your rage impairing your common sense, and reach over to the bar of soap. You attack his face with it in the midst of his laughing fit, and he's back to thrashing and cursing at you. Yet you don't relent in the slightest, going for his collarbone, around his shoulders, scrubbing furiously—it feels a little out of place without a wash cloth, but at least you finally have him.

Even Christophe is bewildered by how out of character you're being, but you don't care. You can't stand his stench, or his behavior. Or how immature he was about taking care of your home, or the carelessness, or all the fighting back. And he doesn't seem to be done with it as he attempts to smack the soap out of your hand.

He didn't count on you keeping your grip on it.

Or you snapping and punching him in the face for it.

And just like that the scuffle is back on. The shower sprays against your back, and every now and then you move out of its way to get Christophe in the face. He growls and retaliates by pulling at your hair or trying to throw you against the wall, or taking one of your bottles of shampoo and pouring the contents into your eyes. You snatch the bottle from him eventually, stepping hard on his foot to keep him rooted as you attempt to get the formula in his greasy locks.

Half-way through scrubbing his dirty rat's nest Christophe pulls his boot out from under your foot, and you're sent falling backwards towards the opposite end of the shower. The back of your head collides with one of the temperature handles. You suck your teeth a second after impact, and sink down to your arse on the floor and back against the tile wall.

Christophe stares down at you, blatantly unsure of what to do.

He settles on awkwardly lowering himself to shower floor as well. To your surprise he's untying his boots, slipping them off by his heels, then peeling off his soaked socks and tossing them away in disgust to the other side of the room.

"Are you going to bathe _properly_ now?" you question. The whole thing has worn away your patience. Just to make things worse for you, Christophe folds his arms and shrugs with a small "_non."_

You tackle the son of a bitch across the floor, your hands instantly threading through his hair to finish the grooming you just started. You dig your nails into his scalp and move your hands in rough circles to get the suds going, and Christophe is back to throwing a fit underneath you. After a few seconds of violent scrubbing you duck your head into his shoulder, once again letting him be pelted by the water. He shrieks and pushes you off of him, and you have no sense of control on the slippery surface to get up off your back. The brunette crushes your chest with his knee, his face beyond livid, but also squeaky clean. The thought makes you smile despite the circumstances of your certain death.

"What?" he spats in your face. He leans in and, yes, he's certainly gotten much cleaner. The oh-so light specks across his tanned face could be identified as freckles without being mixed in with the consolation of dirt and dust. His dark hair is shining with the continuous flow of water hitting him, and the silky touch of your [expensive] shampoo. Best of all, it makes him smell good.

The satisfied smile doesn't leave your features as you attempt to push yourself up, but Christophe only applies more pressure to keep your grounded. That's what makes you frown, and you bring your hands up to push his leg away, but he only takes a harsh hold of your wrists.

Then the grip lets up. Underneath that dark, dripping mop you can see a very uncomfortable Christophe, keeping your hands held up in the air as you stare back awaiting an explanation.

"… do zat again," he finally mutters out.

You raise your eyebrows. "Pardon?"

Christophe continues to look uncomfortable. The Christophe; _Ze Mole_; a man fearless in the face of danger—apart from dogs—is lost for composure when he gradually slithers his hands into yours, and raises them up to either side of his head.

"Zat… massaging thing." His face is tense and his eyes are set elsewhere, too awkward to meet your gaze at his request. Your own expression is slack apart from your widened eyes and eyebrows shot so far up from shock they have a chance of jumping into your hairline.

Your lack of any physical response makes Christophe growl impatiently, and then you can't help but smirk.

"Only if you wash the rest of you," you offer, letting your palms rest against his head.

Christophe gawks in disbelief, but you make sure not to show any sign of backing down. "I know we got all this settled," you gesture from his face to his chest with your eyes, "but we ought to work on your bottom half, no?"

"You mean my _dick_?" He stretches the vowel in his mocking, French way, but you just shrug in return.

"I won't look."

He juts his lower lip out as he thinks over the negotiation, seeming to settle on hoisting you up by your arms and into an upright position. He brings his knee away to turn around and start making quick, reluctant work on his trousers while you spin around to locate your [now tainted] soap, and a washcloth draped over the shelf of your numerous bottles of wash.

"You'll need these," you say as you provide the items over his shoulder. He grunts in response and takes them. His wet and worn pants are kicked out on to the tile floor, and you're reminded of how heavy you feel under your soaked shirt.

You avoid temptation for now.

Although the image present is more than laughable: Christophe sits cross legged, running the soapy cloth down his arms and around his chest, then stretching out his legs as he scrubs away at who-knows-what was caked there. Then there's you, settled behind him, fully clothed and still allowing the shower to run and drench you both as you weave your fingers through Christophe's tangled hair.

His shoulders droop more relaxed when you resume the same circles as before, less aggressive and therapeutic. He hums appreciatively when you dig in deeper with your nails, but jerks upright when he realizes his audited response.

When you laugh he snaps his head over his shoulder at you, causing you to lose one of your hands, but your laughs erupt into higher volume at the flush painted across his cheeks.

"You look ridiculous," he mutters under his breath, and you know he's referring to the fact you're still fully clothed. He throws the rag straight into your face and the loud SLAP of its contact makes you cry out a most impolite "mother _fuck_!" back. You grab it off and throw it against his shoulder. He just allows it to slide into his lap as he chuckles lowly. On the same shoulder you spot some distorted coloring, and realize it was from all the bashing you two did in front of the door; as well as a good chance from when you shoved him into the shower. Smiling apologetically—out of his view—you dip your head down to kiss the bruise.

"Sorry," you murmur.

He doesn't look at you, but you know he understands what your actions refer to. "_Pas de probleme_," he replies dismissively. "How is your face?"

And you understand him too, scoffing in return. "As if you could leave such a concerning infliction."

"Your face says otherwise," Christophe retorts without even looking back at you. You frown in a pout, but cupping your hand to your cheek you _can_ feel it swelling. Damn it.

Then your French friend moves halfway towards you, his delicates concealed behind his folded legs, and returning the healing affection by kissing your injury.

He actually brushes his lips along your flesh to keep from hurting you, but you have no reason to flinch back—out of your pride and from the fact you knew he could no longer dirty you. While his kiss still lingers you lean into it. He's taken aback, frustrated but starting to smile as he leans up and takes your lips, and you take them between your own as your eyes ease shut. The slickness of both your wet lips and the atmosphere of soap and steam make the moment much more enjoyable than the previous pranking assault.

You take his chin between your thumb and forefinger when you pull away, meeting his smirk with your own. "And _that_'_s_ your 'thank you' kiss," you say. "Clean and proper."

"Oh _please,_" the Christophe snorts, but he remains smiling and captured in your hold.

You kiss him again, as you have been waiting to do without having to taste the dirt on the tongue that snakes eagerly into his mouth. At some point your discard your clothes to enjoy the evening without the wet and heavy material weighing you down. The mess awaiting you in the rest of the apartment is momentarily forgotten, but you have a feeling another brawl will break out over it. And you really can't wait. You missed being home.


End file.
